Archive of Our Own

A girl died today. 

Zhou Ruoying liked to play along the Southern Wharf, clamoring up the wooden crates like an adventurer climbing a treasure mountain, or racing against the other children in the back alleys of Chihu Rock. She didn’t like carrots, stewed pork, or going to bed early. Her favorite food was grilled tiger fish. On sunny days, she loved to fly paper kites along the pier with her father.

She died with the awful, tragic simplicity of falling the wrong way. Her feet slipped, her head hitting the stone pavements she loved to run on, death taking her in an instant. 

Zhou Ruoying, who never got to grow into her name. She was still just their Little Ying, still just their Ruo’er, still just ten years old.

After Baizhu’s official confirmation, her parents contacted Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. The wake would have to be held on the same day, in the evening, and the cremation done late into night. There was no other way. The internal fracture in her skull made it difficult to preserve her body even with the help of a cryo talisman. Most of all, Wangsheng was the only funeral parlor that offered no delays. 

An uncomfortable truth: due to the aging population of Liyue, often there was a delay in services. Too many bodies in the queue, so to speak. It was more than unorthodox, but Director Hu’s pyro vision was a visible assurance that the bereaved could collect their loved one’s remains the very next day. A macabre marketing tactic for sure, but one that actually worked.

Indeed, Director Hu took her work seriously, calling in extra hands to help with arrangements, coordinating the entire event within hours. Zhongli was assigned to reception, handling the incoming wreaths and other gifts, setting up the guestbook and family tables, greeting the visitors who came to pay their respects. 

For the most part, the parents were stoic during the wake. Shock perhaps, had dulled their expressions. Their faces looked clayish, lumpy with exhaustion and grief. From moonrise to moonset, they shook hands with guests, accepting sorry condolence after condolence with blank detachment. 

At last, the bell tolled, signaling the end of the wake. The sound was deep, pealing on and on until the ringing faded away, leaving only an echo in their bones. Director Hu stepped forward with two baskets. She had taken the courtesy of taking the best flowers from each gifted wreath, before carefully plucking each one, petal by petal.

“You must cover her with flowers.” Director Hu pressed a basket to Ruoying’s parents. “So that her soul will not be afraid, when the fire takes her.”

Zhongli lifted the lid of the coffin. The casket was small, so tiny that it didn’t even need more than a single pallbearer. Yet the weight it contained seemed insurmountable, as Ruoying’s parents shuffled towards it, each step aging them, as if they were fifteen or twenty years older than they were. 

Gentle were the hands that smoothed over the air above her face. They were not allowed to touch her; to know of her cold flesh, her waxen skin, her purpled blood sunken deep in rigor mortis, cleverly hidden by casket lining. 

This was protocol, back from the days of the Archon War, to prevent the spread of disease. But Ruoying’s parents did not know this, only that tradition dictated the rites to be observed. Their hands clenched, even as they stood back. They could not touch her. They would never kiss her forehead, goodbye.

Only the air above her moved, her father’s gulping throat, her mother’s stuttering breath, and then the softest, most fragrant rain, pink and yellow and ivory flowers, blanketing her with their petals.

Soundlessly, the casket is shut. A coffin now, a dead box made for flames. Director Hu stands before them. Solemnly, she recites the prepared eulogy, the cadence of her voice belying it's quiet poetry.

She hath come home
To the golden bosom of eternal stone
Sunlight smiles upon her, on cloud-glazed wings
Bourne to the highest peaks
Ascended to the peaceful mountains

Yet with yearning hearts
On thee we gaze

Oh, our beloved daughter…

A golden butterfly flutters on the center of Director Hu’s palm, ready to take off when suddenly—

“NO!”  Ruoying’s mother wailed, dashing forward. “Ruo’er! My Ruo’er!”

Quickly, Zhongli moved, pulling her back by the arm as the fire leapt up in its first, glorious-winged flight. The wood enrobed in a consuming dance of flame; red, orange, and yellow-gold.

“Ruo’er! My Ruo’er! If only Rex Lapis was here!” Her mother kept crying, kept screaming. “Rex Lapis would’ve kept her safe! She’s still so young! She’s still so small!  it’s not fair! It’s not fair! Rex Lapis would’ve known, Rex Lapis would’ve protected her, she would be alive right now, Rex Lapis would make it fair, it’s not fair, oh my precious Ruo’er, my baobei …”

Her mother’s fists thudded on his chest, hitting him over and over again. Zhongli did not move, did not let go of her even as her rage pounded on him like a beaten heart. He was so focused that he did not even hear Hu Tao approach.

“Madam Zhou,” Hu Tao said, her dark eyes warm with compassion. “Madam Zhou,” she placed her arm around the mother’s heaving shoulders, a gentle reminder. “Madam Zhou.” She repeated, even softer now. Director Hu took the mother’s angry fists away from Zhongli, wrapping them in her hands, with the same gentle cadence of her poetry.

All at once Madam Zhou stopped, sagging abruptly. Only Hu Tao’s grip kept her from falling to the ground. They made a strange sight, the young director and the bereaved mother, two figures bent together, silhouetted by the still-burning flames. 

How cruel it was, how much it hurt to see. In another world this could have been Zhou Ruoying’s future— the elderly woman’s back stooped low, resting upon the young lady’s shoulder, like a mother, like a daughter, like how things should’ve been. If only Rex Lapis was here. If only the world was fair. If only Ruo’er survived her fall. 

Unfair, unfair, unfair. Yet the flames continued to burn, long after the firewood was consumed. Director Hu’s pyro vision glowed in the dark; the god’s eye gleaming, as though a god was watching, indeed.

At long last, light broke over the horizon. The sun still locked beneath the earth, faint rays emerging from a distant haze, ash bright as it hung over the dew-dark grass of Wuwang Hill. The funerary flames dwindled to white wisps, blending into the early morning fog. The vigil was officially over.

Pale, pallid dawn, the unkind light on the parents’ faces, burdening them with a new day. Master Zhou held his wife, or perhaps she held him; they leaned against each other like two trees struck by lightning, their split trunks fallen and held in delicate equilibrium. Silently, Zhongli guided them down Wuwang Hill, escorting them to the harbor. 

At the entryway, the consultant turned to them, his gold eyes somber as he struggled to speak. 

“If it was possible, I’m sure Rex Lapis would have heard—”

“Rex Lapis is dead.” Master Zhou said coldly. 

He gripped his wife’s hand tightly, his expression all too familiar. Rage torn into grief, his emotions overwhelmed until the man broke and retreated into numbness. Yes, all too familiar, a heart of stone, turning hard upon itself. 

Father, husband, mourning man. Before, he would have smiled at the morning, at the good weather, at the sea breeze. Before, he would have taken Ruo’er to fly paper kites by the pier. Before, before. 

Zhongli bowed his head. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

As a courtesy, he kept his eyes lowered until the couple shuffled past the gates, across the bridge, and disappeared into the stone-clad harbor. Even so, the funeral consultant remained bowed. There was no apology or comfort he could offer. Rex Lapis was dead.

Though the rites were over, there was still work to be had. Death did not slow the day’s crossing, the diligent sun precluding yet another brilliant morning in Liyue. One might look upon the shift of an open sail, or perhaps the lifting shutters of a food stall, to see the trickle of movement grow with tremendous force, the waking currents that surged and joined, forming the tide of people that flooded the harbour with activity. 

Yet within the torrent there were ripples that flowed back. The night watch clocked out their slips, saluting to the new group of Millelith that relieved them of their duties. Further out in the sea, single passenger boats splashed between larger ships, their papered windows full of small and secret cargo, of another night partaken on the Pearl Gallery. Even the harbour’s tortoise-shell cats paused their nocturnal prowls to stretch, tucking down for a sunlit nap.

The day’s bustle was well underway when Zhongli finally left Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. He’d spent the better part of the morning dealing with filing the requisite post-funeral paperwork.  Forms to be notarized and legally certified, input the linked data name, age, date, time of cremation, et cetera, et cetera— lines of ink stretched to the lines of people, all patiently waiting their turn on the steps of the Ministry of Civil Affairs, with the selfsame forms in hand.

Silence, silence greeted him when Zhongli reached home. 

Home . Even though Childe’s absence was felt, Zhongli marveled at it, the novelty of sharing spaces, sharing time. As an immortal adeptus, as an Archon set apart, his godhood came to him fully realized in its divine might. He did not experience the stages of humanity: family, infancy, puberty, death. 

It had been Childe’s proposal to move in together. He had not said so explicitly, but Zhongli was enamored of the idea, and had set upon himself to find the perfect apartment and location. Unspoken was the implication that work and duty always came first, but even so, he felt a thrill when they signed their tenancy agreement together.

An older apartment on the outskirts of Chihu Rock, the narrow dim-lit hallways dating back to an older Liyuen architecture style; but offset by large bay windows that overlooked the sea, and also perfectly equidistant to both their workplaces. 

Co-habitants, roommates, partners . Their names joined together on a piece of routine booking, just another entry in the Liyue Civil Affairs. Yet this was an intimacy he’d never experienced before. For the first time in his long and immortal life, he would have to pay rent, share utilities, split chores, and compromise. 

Initially, Zhongli had worried about their irregular work hours. Childe’s debt collection for Northland Bank, his responsibilities as the Eleventh Harbinger, along with his official role as a diplomat from Snezhnaya cast an uncertain pall over their schedules, and Zhongli was not much better with his graveyard shifts at Wangsheng Funeral Parlour. 

Somehow they found time for each other, snatching hours between clockworked time. Moonlit strolls and suppers taken at midnight, soft kisses shared at dawn, small notes left behind. This too, was a new experience for Zhongli. Absence that was not a preclude to pain and loss, but rather, anticipation for a future reunion. Childe’s absence was not for missing, but an opportunity to demonstrate how much he was loved. 

Zhongli had packed away his things before moving in. The things he collected, the memories he hoarded, the history recorded; he had left it all behind, packed away in his realm. Perhaps it was not the most honest of him, but this too, was part of his reinvention into mortal life. 

Their unfurnished apartment, their tentative space hadn’t been shaped yet— Zhongli had a distinct feeling that this experience was equally new for Childe, misgivings that Childe probably shared but too proud to ask; and so Zhongli took it upon himself, inviting Childe to share in their home decoration, together.

Childe’s things, sparse as they were, began to appear in their common spaces. A well-used oil rag, black with rubbing polish. An accounting book, with shorthand scribbled in the margins. A chef’s knife made of Sumerian steel, the blade rippled like fish scales, beautiful and deadly— Childe wielded it with extraordinary ease, he was at home in the kitchen as he was on the battlefield. 

Zhongli watched him from the counter, his long legs folding below the kitchen stool. Childe floated each ingredient in a hydro bubble, plucking them from air before slicing them below on the cutting board into neat, perfectly baton-sized pieces. 

Tartaglia would do the same, Zhongli mused. Or perhaps, it was through Tartaglia that Childe honed his kitchen skills. The same calm focus, the same quiet, self-satisfied smile, except it would’ve been his enemies' heads cut into baton-sized portions instead of vegetables. 

It did not trouble him. Tartaglia and Childe were one and the same. Zhongli did not consider himself beholden to human standards of morality, gender, sexuality, status, or identity. Was he not the same? He was Morax, he was Rex Lapis, he was also Zhongli, and the myriad of titles he’d deliberately left behind. History would judge them perhaps, or perhaps, even their history would be erased, for even the hardest stone could be eroded by time. 

After the romantic poetics, then came the reality of dirty dishes stacked in short towers by the sink, books written in Liyuen and Snezhnayan alike scattered amongst half-finished cups of tea, polished brick clay next to a well-traveled samovar. On the floor, a lone sock and brown necktie escaped from their shared laundry basket. Such was the state of his current life. 

Once, he came home hunched over with a dark splotch on his grey uniform. Zhongli did not ask, not knowing the boundaries of their relationship yet, where one name ends and another begins, but Tartaglia had come forward with a bandage awkwardly in his hand. 

It was such a new experience for both of them that Zhongli held his breath even as he tended to Tartaglia’s wounds. The harbinger didn’t make a sound, not even when Zhongli’s needle deftly sewed through skin. Only when Zhongli leaned over to kiss his closed lips, did Tartaglia finally gasp in relief.

The detritus of domesticity, Zhongli rejoiced in the things that didn’t belong to him; revealing how one might live, their identities in slow revelation, ambiguous and tellingly intimate, and even so, Tartaglia still chose to share it with him. 

Here now, still silence. Childe wasn’t home, but he had already prepared for Zhongli’s return: his favourite books on the side table, folded blankets, and even a dishrack of cleaned utensils for brewing tea. In his exhaustion Zhongli could only muster a quiet gratitude, before curling up on the couch for a small rest.

Warm fingers combed his head, dragging down his scalp, slipping off the cor lapis clip that held back his hair. Dark brown strands freed from their clasp, flowing silkily down his neck, his shoulders, his back. Zhongli groaned in pleasure, stirring awake. His amber eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep as he regarded his lover. “You’re home late.” 

“Mmmm.” Childe dropped his head on top of Zhongli’s. “Can’t do much about it. People with bank debts usually try to run at night, and then when I got back to the bank, Andrei informed me that one of our, ah, people , are having problems in Inazuma.” Childe snorts. “I don’t feel sorry for her, even if we are for the same cause.” 

Childe eyed Zhongli’s sleep-rumpled suit and general exhaustion. “What about you? You’re not usually this tired. Is your age finally catching up on you, old man?”

“A busy day at work. There was an accident yesterday, and the funeral had to be carried out on the same night.” His tongue felt heavy. Zhongli reached for his now-cold tea, but it did nothing to ease the roughness in his throat. “A young girl died. Zhou Ruoying. She was ten years old.”

Childe made a small noise of acknowledgement. He continued to comb his fingers through Zhongli’s scalp, his thumb kneading against tension on his neck. Zhongli leaned back to his touch. Childe asked nothing, but Zhongli wondered. 

Did Childe feel the same? Did he blame Zhongli as well? Childe experienced complicated emotions when it came to children, and he had younger siblings around Zhou Ruoying’s age. It was difficult for Zhongli to decipher Childe’s thoughts, he had no experience of being a child, much less a parent. 

“Her parents,” Zhongli said, “her parents were worshippers of Rex Lapis.”

The hand massaging his neck stilled, before resuming again. “Rex Lapis is dead though,” Childe said. “Wouldn’t you know? I even saw it happen myself. Fell out of the sky in front of all the tourists, saw history being made, what a super grand time it was.”

Zhongli chuckled at Childe’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but his face was grave when he spoke. “Her parents were angry. They said… If Rex Lapis was here, she would still be alive.”

“Would she? Be alive, I mean.”

“I… I don’t know.” Zhongli said. “They were right though. It is unfair for someone so young, so full of life and potential, to die so soon.”

Again, silence. Zhongli said nothing, his eyes closing as Childe’s thumbs dug deeper into his tense shoulders. He felt Childe observing him, although what he was looking for, Zhongli could not say. He did not know himself. 

Without the help of a mirror, the phases of his own face were unknown to him. Sometimes Zhongli caught himself staring at his own amber eyes, regarding the mortal face and human vessel he chose with a curious, detached air. Even now, Zhongli was unsure of how to look, what shape to take, what expression he should make. Each strange emotion vying for its place, molding and melding into one another caught in a state of suspension.

Childe paused in his ministrations. “Rex Lapis is dead.” His curly head bent down, his smooth shaven cheek rubbed against Zhongli’s poreless, inhuman one. “Rex Lapis is gone, Zhongli.” He repeated, quieter now. 

“Indeed.” Zhongli let go of a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He’d thought, especially with Childe’s attachment to children, that Childe might share a similar opinion. Disappointment perhaps. A dereliction of duty, criticism, or even judgment. 

No. Zhongli realized. Childe would not have judged him for it, he was the Tsaritsa’s Harbinger. Zhongli knew how much Tartaglia loved Liyue Harbour, but he would have drowned the city without question at Her Majesty’s command. Of all people, Childe would understand. 

The judgment came from himself. Zhongli felt guilt. 

As a consultant to Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, Zhongli worked with death, and to some degree, he had even come to embrace its meaning. It was a joyous occasion, to send off an adepti who had served him so long, so richly, so well. 

It was also Director Hu who guided him on his first human wake. She had surprised him. Early in his forays as Zhongli, he had previously attended the cremations, and other adepti ceremonies, but not a mortal wake. 

It’s an important part of your work experience! Director Hu had insisted. All the rules and rituals and etiquette stuff, it doesn’t have any meaning unless you know who it’s for. As the newest hire, Zhongli was not allowed to manage the reception, delegated to arranging flowers and altar instead. 

The client was a woman who died at the age of ninety-two. Zhongli had not thought about her age, for ninety-two years could pass before he even finished brewing a perfect cup of tea. In truth, Zhongli had not thought much of mortality at all, his knowledge of human rituals were confined to Rex Lapis’ discretions, for he viewed and cared for Liyue as a whole, without individual favor.

Zhongli lit the incense as it was custom to do so, and waited.

The wake. They gathered by sundown, nodding at each other in greeting. Her descendents, her children and grand-children and great-grandchildren and more; they had her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her brows. Every single one of their faces was a testament to her lineage. Death surpassed by the ripening of time, the physical marks one leaves behind. Take comfort in that. 

No pain, they told each other over plates of vegetarian abalone. She died in her sleep. Everyone was here. It was time for her to go. They consoled each other with stories, friends and family telling and retelling how she died. Very peaceful. She just fell asleep. It was her time to go. 

Zhongli recalled Director Hu’s words, and then her grandfather’s words, echoing back, through the red-bound threads of time. Live in life, die in death. He watched them celebrate with melancholic toasts of wine. Happiness, derived from nine decades of life, well-lived.

The same could not be said about Zhou Ruoying’s death. He could not unhear her mother’s shattering cry, her father’s silent recriminations. Why, why, why. It was unjust. It was unforgivable. If only Rex Lapis was here. If only he was here. 

“Zhongli,” Childe said. His hands slid down Zhongli’s front, past his collar lapels, settling over the sternum where his gnosis would have been. He rested his chin on Zhongli’s shoulder, wayward copper curls mingled with the dark umber of Zhongli’s hair. His voice was low, as he spoke directly into Zhongli’s ear.

“He’s gone, Zhongli. It isn’t your fault. Rex Lapis is dead.”

Yes, that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Rex Lapis was dead, yes, but Rex Lapis still had his worshippers, even now. Perhaps, in another timeline, Rex Lapis would still be governing Liyue, still holding on to his gnosis, still descending every year with his guidance and predictions. Perhaps in that world, little Ruo’er would still be alive. 

Yet he still chose to retire, to end his reign as an Archon, to let Rex Lapis die. He had done it willingly. It was not taken away from him through theft, trickery, or other means. That was the bitter truth. He had done it not for Liyue, not for the good of humanity, but for himself. 

He grieved for her, for them, but his grief did not hit him like a blow, nor was he struck by its loss, for he had been an Archon for far too long. It was not to say that he did not cherish his people, for Rex Lapis cared and cherished them like every stone he cradled, down to the smallest speck of sand. Rather, this was part and parcel of his new life, a natural human life, living as Zhongli.

Zhongli said nothing. He turned his head, his hands moving up, joining them together. His palm rested above Childe’s hands, covering them. For a moment they held each other, Childe’s arms in a loose embrace around Zhongli’s shoulders, Zhongli’s palms clasped firmly over the back of Childe’s hands. 

Childe’s face was close to his, a dazzling halo glimpsed by the window-framed sun. His eyes were the same color as the midday sky, the same shocking blue. Sea-blue, storm-blue. Blue as the day Zhongli looked up, and wondered when his work would end.

“ Childe. ” Zhongli lifted their joined hands, bringing them close, kissing their intertwined fingers. He closed his eyes, whispering into his lover’s palm as if it was a secret confession. “It has been a very long night.” 

“A bad day huh,” Childe said. He kept his tone light. “Have you eaten yet? I can make us a very late dinner, or a very early breakfast, if you'd like.”

There was a frustration in Zhongli’s eyes, a stiffness in the way he held himself and his faraway gaze, distant and bruised from duty and memory. Childe wanted to fold the adeptus into a lanky embrace, as if his arms were branches sheltering deep roots beneath. He wanted to remind Zhongli of his presence, of now.   

“No, I’m not hungry. You should eat though,” Zhongli said. 

“Nah I’m good,” Childe waved away his concern with ease. “I ate on the way back from the treasure hoarder camps.” He blew a loud, smacking kiss over Zhongli’s head. “Surprised you can’t smell the mora meat sandwich on me.”

“Among all the dirt, sweat and other things?” Zhongli raised a brow. “Perhaps I’ve been holding my breath the entire time, and you simply did not notice.”

Childe laughed, a bright and golden thing. When he laughed like that, he looked as young and carefree as his title; Snezhnaya’s noble son indeed. No wonder the harbour folk once thought of him as a prince. No wonder Zhongli fell in love with him. How could he not, when Childe laughed like that; the sudden dimple on his cheek, a surprise gift, made his smile all the more dazzling.

His laughter faded away, bell-like chuckles chiming further and further out in the distance. For a moment, it seemed as though time stood still. Light arced though the half-drawn curtains, splitting into twin beams, perfectly symmetrical as it bent across the squared ceiling, across the wood parquet floor, mirroring each other. 

They didn’t speak of the sharp embalming fumes that permeated Zhongli’s clothes, overwhelming his perfume with the smell of cryo fluid. Nor did he mention the dark crust underneath Childe’s fingernails, the dulled-rust undertone of dried blood left trailing in wake as Childe continued to play idly with his long hair. Such things did not need to be said, in the solace of their shared home.

“I could use a bath,” Childe said. “How about you? Do you want to—” he hesitated, then rephrased himself. “It’s not like that, I mean, unless you want to, but we could just bathe together, I can do your hair, it'll be easier, and then we can just go to sleep afterwards, if that’s okay with you…”

Zhongli couldn’t help but smile at his awkward invitation. He recalled the raw vulnerability Tartaglia yielded to him during the night of their reconciliation. Tartaglia gave himself with such savage violence that Zhongli couldn’t help but rise up to the challenge, taking him with such possessive ferocity he’d surprised himself. 

Tartaglia had awoken something in him, something that demanded more — affection, love, sex, those were things they both wanted, but their relationship was still too new, their communication was still too uncertain, and their boundaries unknown.

Zhongli did not fare much better. He had no experience in human relationships beyond the scope of contracts and transactions, he could no more measure the depth of his feelings than he could weigh out the exact weight of soil that made up Liyue’s living culture.

They were lovers, yes, but their love was new, guarded by lines they couldn’t cross as adeptus and harbinger. Zhongli would not allow Liyue to be endangered, even if it cost him, but he also knew that Tartaglia would never ask that of him, even under the threat of death. Tartaglia would demand a fight, meet him in battle, rather than ask or scheme his way in; and this is one of the reasons why Zhongli loves him so. 

Still, Zhongli could not help but feel endeared to Childe's invitation to bathe together. Perhaps one day Childe will assert himself as boldly as he did on the battlefield, but for now, the novelty lent a delicious heat to Childe’s blushing cheeks, and it made Zhongli want to tease him.

“A bath?” Zhongli leaned back until his head rested on Childe’s lap. Long, rich brown hair spilled down the sides of Childe’s thighs in a brief electric caress, a barely-felt sensation that sent a shudder through him. 

“Would you wash my hair for me?” Zhongli purred. He raised his hand, reaching up towards Childe’s face. Childe leaned down, crouching over Zhongli in a hunch. Zhongli’s palm cradled his face, his thumb rubbing small circles over his cheeks. Childe rested his face to Zhongli’s gloved palm, pressing a small kiss at the center. The shadow cast on his face made his blue eyes even more striking.

“Would you scrub my back for me?” Zhongli said. He spoke in low tones, forcing Childe to lean further down to listen. His hand never left Childe’s face, finding intensity that matched his own. 

“Would you do as I want? As I wish?” Zhongli tilted his head back. The action caused the smooth column of his neck to stretch erotically, revealing a hidden expanse of pale skin under his jaw down to the glimpse revealed by his shirt collar and loosened tie. His throat was bared to Childe’s hunter-like gaze.

Childe swallowed. Zhongli’s expression was neutral, almost demure. His gold irises were shaded by the dark umber of his lashes, vermillion lines stark and vividly red as it shaped his eyes. “Would you do this all for me?”

“...For you?” Childe’s gaze never left Zhongli. Even the lightless blue could not hide the violet haze that swallowed his eyes. He mouthed over the leather of Zhongli’s glove, his lips brushing over the seam just above his wrist. 

Suddenly, he bit down harshly on the joint of Zhongli’s thumb. Zhongli’s pulse thundered. Even with his gloves on, Zhongli could feel his teeth. 

There was an arterial vein there, Zhongli knew. He studied the bodies of humans before making his own. Arterial vein pumping hot and red over the palmar arch, connecting to his heart. Princeps . The first vein, the noble vein, the vein that Snezhnaya’s little predator and princeling was biting on as if he owned Zhongli’s blood. As if Zhongli was a mortal man, as if he had red blood. 

“For you?” Childe repeated, his words were soft but no less tinged with violence. “For you, anything .”

Steam rose in diaphanous clouds, before condensing on the plain walls, dripping back down in thin rivulets. The sound they made bounced in the enclosed bathroom, magnified by white ceramic tiles, even and rectangular.  This utilitarian backdrop stood stark against the oversized magnificence of their bathtub, deep and large enough to fit them both comfortably with room. The wooden sides of the tub glowed in the late morning light like a single slab of polished amber, absorbing the sun to radiate its own golden gleam. 

Childe was already naked, a towel wrapped around his waist as he tested the water’s temperature. Zhongli liked his baths hot, scaldingly so. He also enjoyed a luxurious full-body soak, an amenity that did not come with their rental apartment. 

In the end, Childe had to renovate the entire bathroom, tearing away the old pipes and fixtures to install a giant wooden bathtub— only old chihua wood, Zhongli said with particular fussiness, would be most suitable for bathing and relaxation.  How much it would cost, and how Childe would even begin to acquire it; did not even cross the adeptus’s thoughts. This was somewhat amusing to Childe. For Zhongli might have given away his gnosis, but he did not change his expectations. What Zhongli wanted, he expected with the entitlement of an Archon; the world would change itself for him— he got.  

Such egotism was familiar to Childe. Childe knew himself, his own pride as a warrior, his reckless arrogance against Celestia was what led him to becoming a harbinger in the first place; for he would never back down even if against a stronger foe. He sought strength. The prospect of fighting Celestia excited him, he was unafraid. He sought out tainted powers, heresy posed no threat to him. He challenged the world order, Tartaglia would conquer the stars. 

But he did not live as a god. Tartaglia lived by a soldier’s creed, he was unused to luxury and material comfort. Tartaglia did not know of the offerings that befitted a god, of how a god might dress and proclaim themself, or what a god’s life would be like. 

More than once, it occurred to Tartaglia that Zhongli was educating him in the ways of being a god. Zhongli spent his mora on things most normal people would consider only as frivolous luxuries. For an Archon like Rex Lapis however, such luxuries were demanded simply as part of one’s daily rites. To think that even gods could suffer from lifestyle creep, and that he, of all people, was funding it—what an amusing thought.

Most tellingly, Tartaglia did not know how to be worshipped, to be loved like a god is loved. The adeptus had kissed the arch of his foot, and caressed him with millenia-old hands. He praised Tartaglia’s body with reverent kisses, mouthing prayers as he sucked his dick. He looked at Tartaglia with devotion in his divine eyes, golden and powerful, and told Tartaglia he was worthy. Such adoration took his breath away. 

“Is the bath ready?” Zhongli’s voice floated in. He stood at the doorway, looking in. It was warm enough that the humidity made his suit damp, his hair clinging down the back of his neck. Childe sat on the bathtub’s ledge, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on the water, sweat trickling down his naked back. The heat made the outline of his body shimmer, he looked like a nymph from Remurian paintings of old. 

“Mmm, almost.” Childe said. He rubbed his face. Sweat dripped from his brow. “It’s too hot in here, I can’t—” and he sprung up, throwing the window shutters open. Cold crisp wintry air rushed in, the steam roiled backwards in an ebbed wave. Childe exhaled in relief, his eyes closed shut at the bracing cold. 

Zhongli huffed an amused snort before stripping down. “You’ll catch a cold if you continue to lean out the window, Childe.”

“I can’t help it,” Childe said. He watched as Zhongli sank down into the bath, the hot water covering over his shoulders like an emperor’s robe. “Your idea of a comfortable temperature is enough to boil a man alive.” 

Zhongli, he noted sourly, did not turn the slightest pink. His body, his vessel, whatever it was; remained the same bloodless alabaster, pale and flawless, a subtle reminder of the god he was sharing a bath with.

“As always your complaints about heat are duly noted.” Zhongli said. “Come now, won’t you join me? The water is delightful.” 

“You’ll make soup out of us if you could.” Childe grumbled, but it was half-hearted. He wanted to be near Zhongli, every cell and fiber in his body screamed for closeness, he could not stop himself even if he tried. 

Already, he was reaching for Zhongli, his calloused hands skimming over Zhongli’s wet shoulders, gathering his hair deftly into a loose twist, then placing it by the side of his nape. In turn, Zhongli tipped his head to kiss Childe’s knuckles in silent gratitude, his long elegant fingers looped over Childe’s wrists, urging him in. 

Perhaps Zhongli felt the same gravitational pull as he did. Their incongruous lives; mortal and immortal, heretic and adeptus, abyss and divine— parallel foils to each other, but somehow drawn together into a singular convergence.

Childe allowed himself to be pulled in, sinking down with a sigh. He dropped his head on Zhongli’s shoulder, his cheek rubbing on the wet, supple skin. “You make this too easy.”

“Should it be difficult? Must it always be difficult?” Zhongli’s thumb dragged the soft skin just under Childe’s eyes. The skin there was so thin, so delicate, he could feel the hard edge of Childe’s eye socket jutting out from his skull. “Living is difficult enough as it is… such peace should not be taken for granted.”

“Where’s the challenge otherwise?” Childe said. “Being like this, falling in love, being in love, loving me… won’t you get bored someday?” His tone dipped lower, taunting. “If you wanted easy, you shouldn’t have picked me.”

Childe spoke with offhand nonchalance, but Zhongli knew better. He sighed. Those words were immature antics meant to test him, to provoke hurt or otherwise. It was a form of self-protection, as humans were fond of playing these games. It would be simple enough to reassure Childe with loving platitudes, but he would be lying. Zhongli did not wish to lie again.

“I forget how young you are at times, until you say such things.” Zhongli regarded him with his inhuman gaze. “It would be wise not to forget that the boredom you speak so lightly of; many gods died for it.”

“And what if I were to challenge such peace?” 

“Aren’t you already doing so?” Zhongli said. He raised his fingers, ticking off each title in a dry monotone. This was the detachment of a long-lived god. “Tsaritsa’s vanguard. Eleventh harbinger. Tartaglia. ”

Sometimes Childe forgot, when Zhongli wore his mask too well. Then moments like this brought him back; this mysterious consultant, this fuddly old man, was not a man at all.  They were less than a handspan apart, sharing the same bath but Childe felt an impregnable distance yawning between them, Zhongli drifting further to his memories, closed off and away due to Childe’s inexperience. 

Childe would never allow such a distance. God, mortal, beast; he would close the gap between them, no matter how impossible it may seem. He surged forward, cutting Zhongli off with a kiss. The water sloshed over the edge, Childe cupped Zhongli’s face in his hands, dragging him closer to settle between his knees. 

“You talk too much, you know that?” Childe said after they parted. 

“Is that so?” Zhongli said smoothly. Kiss-bitten, his lips were red, even as he tried to retain his seeming indifference. “I rather thought you enjoyed my stories. After all, that was how we first met.” His expression turned sly. “I recall a particular Snezhnayan diplomat chasing me for my time, even seeking to put my services under a contract, for the want of stories.”

“That’s true, but I’ve definitely heard you tell the same story twice.” Childe smiled. His teeth were very white. “Isn’t that what you want to be? Normal, mortal, everyday, boring mister Zhongli. ” He said in a singsong. “I guess you’re just gonna have to accept the status downgrade, being the arm candy of the big bad Fatui guy and all.”

“How could I forget, especially when you keep reminding me?” Zhongli leaned forward, and nipped the pink shell of his ear. His ruby earring clacked between Zhongli’s teeth. Childe shivered at the gesture. “You will do well to remember who you belong to.”

Childe couldn’t tell if Zhongli’s subtle possessiveness was something he learned through human observation, or yet another trait innate to the dragon nature of the former Archon. 

Greed, Childe thought, can run both ways . Want was not enough to describe how much they needed each other, how much they craved each other’s presence. There was another name for this kind of hunger, but it was too early, their relationship too new, their future too uncertain,  too much too soon; Childe could not bring himself to say it. And yet—

He kissed Zhongli again. His hand curled around Zhongli’s head to bring him closer, his fingers tangling into his wet hair, so dark it looked almost black. Childe kissed him, the damp heat of their mouths, hot and slick, the damp heat of their bath, warm water sluicing off their skin. Heat that hid the flush on his cheeks, the words that burned he couldn’t say when their tongues danced. 

“As long as you remember you’re mine as well.” Childe said.

“Hmm.” Zhongli said. His hand lingered even after their kiss, his thumb playing over Childe’s lips, long elegant fingers swiping the water drops that clung on the sides of his cheeks, the line of his jaw. “If my stories bore you so, perhaps you should be the one telling them.”

Childe snorted. “Me? A storyteller?”

“Why not?” Zhongli said. “After all, I am merely just— ah, allow me to quote you on this: the arm candy of the big bad Fatui guy and all .” 

“Hey!” Childe exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be using my own words against me.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause you’re actually a big overdramatic dragon god who deceived me.” Childe poked Zhongli in the chest. “Spending my mora, taking advantage of my youth, seducing me to your bed, what more do I have to say?” Childe heaved an exaggerated sigh. “ And a six-thousand-plus age gap too! Talk about being a cradle robber. That’s a huge red flag in a relationship!”

Zhongli laughed. Light, gentled from the mist that remained, bounced in long streaks across the bath, highlighting the streak of blonde in Childe’s auburn hair. Lightness, it leeched the weariness off his bones, the teasing pout of Childe’s mouth urging him to play along. 

This too, was a new experience. In all his years observing humanity, Zhongli had experienced different forms of intimacy: reverence, worship, and even love. It took a certain fearlessness, perhaps one could even call it blasphemy, to treat him with such casual familiarity.

“But you’ll forgive me won’t you?” Zhongli purred, taking Childe’s calloused hands into his own, lifting them to his lips, to kiss at his fingertips. “Shall we schedule a fight for tomorrow? Or perhaps the day after? After all, you still haven’t defeated me.”

“ Yet . I haven’t defeated you yet.”

“Modesty benefits, arrogance reaps its own failure.” 

“Don’t tell me how the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Childe retorted.

“A quote from a Snezhnayan writer?” Zhongli wrapped his arms around Childe’s waist, pulling him close to nuzzle against his shoulder. “What hidden depths I have yet to uncover, hmm? Do you paint or write poetry in secret? Or perhaps, as my gallant performer, do you dance?”

“It’s nothing special. He’s really famous where I’m from.” Childe shrugs, or tries to, but Zhongli’s embrace is inescapable. “Everyone from my hometown has read him.” 

“One of Snezhnaya’s greatest storytellers is from your hometown?” Gold eyes appraise him, Childe squirms under the renewed intensity of Zhongli’s gaze. “And here you are, trying to deny me of a story.”

“There’s no story to tell, I grew up in a Fatui barracks, as you already know.”

“Tell me a story about your hometown then. Surely it must be an exceptional place, for producing not only one of Snezhnaya’s greatest writers, but also one of the Tsaritsa’s harbingers.”

“You’re very pushy about this,” Childe said suspiciously. “Why?”

“Why not? You were the one who called me an— what was it again? A big overdramatic dragon god .” Zhongli said.

Childe sighed. Of course Zhongli would bring it up, the perils of dealing with an immortal with an equally immortal memory. He was already thinking up ways to block out Zhongli’s line of questioning when Zhongli spoke again.

“Well then, entertain this dragon god, youngling .” The imperious demand was followed by a slight smile. 

A barely-there smile that lurked on his mouth, quirking up the corners of his lips, Zhongli’s eyes glinting with rare mischief. It made him look younger, more boyish than his usual composed elegance. The smile wiped the weariness from his face, the burdens of life and death lifted from Zhongli’s shoulders— not forgotten, but set aside for now; and Childe could not refuse him.

“How do I start? Well, I guess we can start at my home. My father is the man of the house, he wakes up first, before dawn, to start the fire. It’s the first thing he does every morning. He goes to the shed to take the firewood chopped the day before, then lights up the wood-burning stove to wake the house and keep it warm…”

Childe dipped his hand in the bath, no longer hot, just pleasantly warm. His fingers idly trace the water, circles rippling out from his fingertips and before he realizes it, trails of water climb up like vines, constructing his memory of home. The giant stove materializes before him, the rough brick plastered over with white clay, the small cast-iron door, the metal pipe that runs along the slanted sides of the ceiling, holding up the snow-piled roof. Tendrils of warm water coiling upwards like the warm smoke into steam, into air.

“It’s not like Liyue, our winters are nine-months long, or as we’ll say back home: two joys when spring comes, one for the farmer, one for the mother. Maybe that’s true. I guess that’s one way to mark the days. I’m one of six children after all.” Childe smiled at the thought. “Mama had me in summer, when all the fields were tall and yellow with sunflowers.”

“You are close to your mother?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I used to be… It’s hard for them to see me all grown up now, I guess?” Childe said, but even he sounded unconvincing to himself. “But it’s not all bad, I mean, we write often to each other. I just received Tonia’s letter yesterday!” Childe turned quiet for a moment, his voice grew soft. “Besides, I have you now, don’t I?”

“And you always will.” Zhongli said. He did not understand all the nuances of Childe’s family, the entire concept of family was foreign to him. The adepti had their own bonds, kin to like-kin, lord and vassal, but they were not the same as mortals. 

Half-adepti were birthed by their human parent, but pure adepti came from the elements. And Morax, the most powerful of them all—  he was an accident blessed by nature: the collision of particles and energy and time over time, gathering and coalescing itself into intelligence. He did not come as a babe from a womb, he arrived into the world fully formed.

Zhongli sank further into the water. Sometime between their conversation, his head had moved down from Childe’s shoulder to his chest, pillowed by the soft rhythms of Childe’s heart, beating as gently as the sea. He was awake, but his wakefulness felt like a dream. Zhongli had worked through the long endless night, without the gravity of sleep to ground his mortal routines, and now he was floating adrift in the daylight spaces in between.

“Tell me more about the snow.” Zhongli said, his eyes half-closed in rest. Their limbs tangled underwater, their knees brushing impossibly close, cradled by the bath, cradled by each other, the only sign was a small splash of water lapping too close to the edge. 

Childe hummed. “What else can I say? The snow is beautiful.” He paused, and then he felt Zhongli’s hand on his thigh, his large warm palm a comforting weight, anchoring and insistent. “Just like the deserts in Sumeru or the ash plains of Natlan, fresh water is precious in Snezhnaya.” 

“When it gets too cold, our water pipes get frozen and stop working. Ice becomes our main source of water. At the first snowfall, it’s a sign for everyone in the village to go up to the river and harvest fresh ice, before the deep freeze sets in and is too hard to do.”

“I did not think your Tsaritsa would be so kind to her subjects.”

“She is our queen, Zhongli. We love her. Snezhnaya loves her. Surely you understand that. She may be a harsh mistress, but she still shows us mercy no less.” 

“I do.” Zhongli said. He squeezed Childe’s thigh. There was something strangely paternal, but equally possessive, in his gesture. “But let us not talk of such things. What happens to the ice?”

“It’s cut into blocks, then stacked high in the storehouse. Papa will take one in his mornings, and throw it into our water barrel. It’s a bit like those Liyuen planters you see up in Yujing Terrace, you know those big round ones, blue and white and ceramic, except ours is made of wood and hammered iron, and we’ll have a few of them by the stove, so they can slowly melt into water.”

“How do you take a bath then? Do you just stand inside these water barrels?” Zhongli sounded so puzzled Childe could not help but laugh.

“That water is for drinking .” Childe corrected him. “We can’t have baths everyday, it’s not like Liyue where fresh water flows easily down its mountains. We don’t have a big estuary like Dihua Marsh, and somewhere like Qingce or Qiaoying— well, my hometown won’t believe such a place exists.”

“Then how do you clean yourself? Don’t you get dirty?” Zhongli frowned as if he couldn’t comprehend such a life. “Do you each have your own barrel? What if you run out? Why can’t you just make more? You have a hydro vision, wouldn’t that help?”

Childe laughed so hard he could barely get the words out. “You make it sound so simple!” He exclaimed. “Ah Zhongli, I can’t imagine how you’ll do in my hometown. How will you survive without your luxurious soaks and fancy oils and afternoon tea? Even a single day would be too grueling for your delicate sensibilities!” 

“Where I come from, you don’t bathe everyday. It’s not like Liyue, where it’s humid all the time, and you don’t get very dirty when it’s so cold out. No sweating, and all the dust and dirt are below the blanket of snow. Once a week Papa will set up the shower shed, it’s basically a shack with a stove and it gets super hot from steam and we’ll clean ourselves there. First will be Mama and the girls, and then it’ll be our turn, with Papa and my brothers. We’ll scrub ourselves down with a linden towel, the rough bark keeps us clean without soap, and then we’ll rinse off with a pail of water.”

“As for water… actually, we only have a few large barrels that we use across the entire day. If we run out, we’ll ask a neighbor for a scoop of water or two. We’ll do the same if someone else needs water too. Most families are like ours. We share, that’s how we survive.”

The color was high on Childe’s cheeks, his excitement spilling over as his hands caught the flowing water effortlessly. A swirling orb tossed between his palms, hollowing out into a large barrel that turned into a rickety outhouse, a perfect imitation: a miniature wooden shed complete with a chimney stack, smoke swirling upwards in a transparent halo. The hydro circlet looped over Childe’s hair, before it splashed back down to itself, a never-ending dance of water. 

Beautiful, Zhongli observed. This was not a new observation, but Zhongli thought he could spend an eternity observing Childe, and still find new depths. His eyes followed Childe’s arm as it swept across the still surface of the bath, ripples following his hand, the water moving with its master, just as Zhongli’s gaze chased after his lover.

It was sublime to watch; the water sublimated and submitted to Childe’s will, bending and yielding in his touch. Zhongli recalled the children who played by the Southern Wharf, their games of throwing and catching balls into nets with the same easy grace that Childe displayed. The storyteller performing his tale to a captivated audience, Zhongli could not look away, lest he missed any part of the show. 

“What do you do all day? If it is so bitterly cold, surely work must be done indoors.” 

“It’s just like any other place I guess.” Childe said. “The little ones bundle up and go to school. We’re a small backwater village, but we’re not that uneducated.” Childe chuckled to himself, before continuing. “It’s a community school shared by four villages, and we have a teacher there for all our letters and numbers. It’s a bit of a walk, that’s why it’s important to bundle up. I used to walk there every morning after breakfast, and my eyebrows would get frosted just after the first minute.” Childe shuddered at the memory. “That’s how cold it’ll get in the morning, if you’re not careful, you’ll get icicles stuck on your face when your nose drips!”

While Childe lacked the skill of weaving together different elements, he made up for this with his enthusiasm. He was not descriptive, preferring to stick to the core facts— a trait common in soldiers. Yet Childe’s succinct narration only served to emphasize his sincerity, leaving Zhongli to imagine the rest. Zhongli could see it. 

Houses with their steep roofs laden with snow, snow on windows, snow on the ground, blanketing the world in brilliant white. The only color came from the sky, which would be a dazzling untouched blue. Blue sky, white snow, and a yellow sun. Miles and miles of unbroken landscape, like bands of light and color traveling across with aching simplicity. Childe’s people would cherish the few hours of sunlight, their only source of warmth that came freely without hard work. 

There would also be a young boy, with hair the color of sunset and wheat. A boy with his oversized hat, so big it would droop over his pink ears. He’ll be wrapped up in a coat and furs, his small hands in mittens, as he stuffed them in his pockets. Or perhaps his small gloved hands, clumsy as they were, intently making snowballs and snowmen. His copper eyelashes would be covered in ice, long and framing the same fathomless blue that Zhongli loved today. 

This small boy that Zhongli has never met; not yet named Tartaglia, not yet called Childe.

Zhongli could almost taste the sharp wind that cut through the endless plain, the bittersweet taste of snowfall. Childe told his story with such realism that Zhongli shivered at the imagined chill, and curled deeper into the warmth of the bath. 

“Are you alright?” Childe noticed how Zhongli sunk deeper into the bath, his body relaxed as he laid between Childe’s legs. Childe pushed on his shoulder, but Zhongli was immovable. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me, let’s get you out of the bath and to bed.”

“Unnecessary.” Zhongli regarded him with half-lidded eyes. His pupils had thinned, the diamond narrowed down to glowing, serpentine slits that belied his true nature. Childe could almost see the adeptus’ horns branching out from his proud head, how his skin would darken, smooth as grey slate and the glowing cracks and crevices, as luminous as the purest cor lapis. 

“I was merely absorbing your delightful story. You paint such lovely images of your hometown. Now,” Zhongli said. “Tell me more.”

“More of what? Haven’t I told you everything already? What else do you want to know?”

“Not enough.” Zhongli said. “I want to know what people do. You mentioned school for the children, but what do the adults do? What kind of work do they undertake? You have not mentioned the cuisine, the arts, the—”

“Okay okay I get it!” Childe said in a half-laugh. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Why are you so interested in this anyway? It’s just a small village, not even a town, and nothing as grand as the capital. Even Qingce village has more people than my hometown.”

“That is exactly what makes it so interesting.” Zhongli said. “Because of you . You came from somewhere, you have a hometown, and that makes me curious to learn more.”

“Hah! That kind of talk could get you thrown out as a traitor. The Fatui have no past, no personal history, no name of their own except the one they chose when they joined Her Majesty’s service.”

“You are in Liyue are you not?” Zhongli said. His smile gleamed. A trick of light perhaps, but his teeth seemed sharper than usual. “I have no wish for you to betray the Tsaritsa’s secrets; I only desire to learn more about my lover’s past.”

With Zhongli so soft in his arms, Childe assumed that Zhongli was still exhausted after that long, grueling night of funerary rites and grief. Childe had been mistaken. It was not slumber that kept him so quiet, but patience. Zhongli had been listening intently, gently prompting him when it was needed, prodding him with questions when Childe lapsed from his storytelling. 

These were tactics of someone well-versed in interrogation. Childe felt a strange exhilaration from this unexpected bout of verbal sparring. Was this what Rex Lapis was like in the olden days? Did Morax cross-examine his enemies with the same relentless curiosity? Childe imagined the battle unfolding before him: Morax in all his divine might, pinning his opponents down with his golden spear, cornering them into answers with a few chosen words.

But what harm was there really in telling about himself? Rex Lapis had given up his gnosis. Tartaglia fulfilled his mission. Zhongli was finished with his night duties, and Childe completed his tasks for the day. Was there any real harm, to set aside their masks at this moment?

Childe felt his stomach twist, knotted with the weight of conflicting desires. Zhongli’s words burned with hunger, the tone of his voice demanded obedience. He wanted to yield, but his deep-seated training stopped him. Zhongli was convincing, even moreso when Childe knew what motivated him. 

To go so far just to learn more about him…. Greed, it runs both ways; Childe’s own thoughts came back to haunt him.

“After school…” Childe started, stopped, then began again. “Ours is a fishing village by the sea. The sea provides what the land doesn’t: we love our fish, our shrimps and other shellfish, all manner of sea creatures, and even our bread is baked with laver. Sometimes we hunt, usually small animals like squirrels, rabbits and even deer. The snow deers back home don’t graze on grass, not like the plump brown Mondstadt ones, but tree bark instead. They eat so much bark they could strip the brownest, driest trees to white bone.”

“You’ve never seen anything like it Zhongli. They curl their lip up and peel back the dried bark with their teeth, as if it was the fanciest gourmet meal straight out of Liuli Pavilion. It looked so good that I tried it once, but the bark was too hard, and the tree sap stung my lips and my tongue swelled up so much I couldn’t talk. Luckily my mama noticed and gave me pinecone honey tea to keep it down. Apparently that stuff is poisonous, only the snow deer can eat it, but then again, we hunt the snow deer and eat its meat, so maybe we’re eating the tree bark too.”

“Did you hunt often? Is that how you practiced your bow?”

“No, not really. I prefer other weapons, but with water so scarce, I thought the bow would be a good weapon to have because it uses so little hydro. An arrowhead consumes much less energy, and requires much less hydro than forming a blade. Making dozens of arrowheads would take only a small amount, and I can cover a large area much more effectively.”

“Very efficient of you,” Zhongli said. “It’s remarkable how much control you have over your element. On every occasion we have sparred, you’ve shown wonderful adaptability in your choice of weapons and techniques.”

“Oh the great and mighty Zhongli praising me for my skills in battle,” Childe teased. “In that case, the next time we fight I’ll surely win.”

“It was a compliment measured in mortal terms. You cannot defeat me, for I am a god.” The statement was said so plainly that Childe wanted to challenge him in that instant. Then Zhongli’s expression softened, he reached up to cup Childe’s eager face in his hands, as if he was beholding a precious gem. “No doubt you’ll still try, I wager.”

“Hah! You know me. Can’t back down from those fighting words. Who knows? Teyvat has its own laws, and life is full of surprises. You’ll find yourself on the other end of my blade someday.”

“I await my future surprise then.” Zhongli said dryly. His hands fell back down as he settled back to rest comfortably against Childe. “As much as you enjoy talking about battles, I would rather hear more about your life in your hometown. If you do not hunt, then what do you do?”

“Ah!” Childe said with delight. “We do ice fishing!”

“Ice fishing?”

“Yep! Long after the fall harvest, when the winter days are long and dark. We wait, because the sea ice needs to grow thick enough until you can stand on the frozen sea and not see the land shore for miles and miles, that’s when we have our fishing day.”

“Everyone comes together for fishing day. First the village chief makes a small fire to pray for blessings. The strongest men will cut two holes on different sides like this—” Childe gestured as he spoke. 

Childe’s face grew more animated; this topic was something very dear to his heart, Zhongli noted. He watched as Childe drew diagrams out of water, the shape of an ice shelf forming between his hands, then twin triangles cut neatly out of the unmoving water. Yet again, Zhongli marveled at Childe’s control. 

“—see? We make two large holes on each side, facing the horizon, and use it to mark our positions. Then we make smaller holes that go along like this,” Childe waved his hand, and a string of smaller holes appeared, forming a line that connected them to the larger holes on each side. 

“These small holes are for guiding the net. When it’s fishing day, we use the largest, biggest net in the village, it’s so big it spans across the entire shore. The night before it gets used, all the women check it for holes, and repair it. It’s so heavy that it takes at least ten men to carry it down. ”

“Once the small holes are dug, a villager is assigned to each one. Then comes the best part, and that’s when the net is dropped into the big hole.” In Childe’s hands, the frozen ice shelf is expanded across the entire width of the bathtub, like a general strategizing over his territory maps. 

Zhongli watched as a net made of hydro, impossibly delicate, flowed into the large hole on the left, then connected at each smaller point until it reached the hole on the other end, at the far right.

“Can you see it? Each villager assigned to the smaller hole guides the net across using the sea current and a wooden stick, until it reaches the other end. It’s like one of those tabletop games you’ll play at Lantern Rite, putting the net across to stop the baddies from crossing the line, except in this case, we’re not stopping baddies but catching fish. Then afterwards we beat the water to drive all the fish to the big net. That’s why everyone has to come, the men, the women, the children, we all have to help out otherwise this won’t work. Besides, just standing around doing nothing will just get you frozen anyway.”

“When it's finally time to pull up the net, its like time stopped. We’ll stand around at the big hole, waiting with our sharp sticks and hands ready to help out at any moment. The village chief will call out: pull ! pull ! pull ! Hand over hand, the net will get dragged back up to surface.”

“It’s so exciting, you can’t believe it— this giant hole with the black ocean slushie, the icy current, standing on the ice and nothing below you, no land, only sea for miles around you. You’re looking on, you can’t see anything because it’s so dark, so cold, not knowing what’s underneath, not knowing how much fish we’ll catch and then, woosh! ” 

A spray of water leapt in the air, a fat tuna with open fins, then splashed back down again. Zhongli couldn’t see Childe’s face at this angle, but elation was clear in his voice, Childe was just as immersed in telling his own story as Zhongli was, listening to him.

“All the fish! We’ll catch so much fish that even the net can’t pull it all up at once! The kids will come running over and we’ll scoop as much as we can with our smaller nets, and toss the fish on the snow! One year, the fish was so fat that we had to use shovels to scoop them up!”

“It’s such a sight Zhongli, there’s nothing like it. All the fish strewn on the snow, silver and white against the dark dark night. It’s so cold that the fish die instantly, flash frozen once they hit the ice. Just think! A whole river of fat fish, belly up, so much of it that it leads from the slushing sea right up to the village steps, all this food we caught, what a feast we’ll have!”

“The best part is sharing the catch. Every family gets a huge sack of fish! We share the catch because fishing day is only held once in winter— I’m sure that’s the same for some farmers in Liyue, we only have it once in winter otherwise the fish won’t come back next year. So the entire village shares the fishing day catch, all the participants get their share, and even the neighbors who can’t come ‘cause they’re too old or sick or pregnant.”

“That night, when we finally get home, Mama will make roasted fish. It’s a special occasion dish. She makes it only when we catch fresh fish that day, it’s so delicious, so tasty and warm, the fish is flakey and soft but the skin gets super crispy and crunchy, and we eat it with sour cream, or dipped in melted butter.” Childe paused, licking his lips at the memory before continuing. 

“When I first got my vision, I was so excited, and I’ll practice and practice for the big fishing day. I’ll dream about how Papa and I would walk across the frozen shore together, and I’ll use my hydro vision to make the net ‘swim’ to the final point on the other side. I could pull the biggest wave under the sea, and drive all the fish in the ocean. I could catch the biggest fish in the world!” Childe was so exultant that he forgot where he was; only Zhongli kept him from jumping out of the bath.

“Having a vision, especially a hydro one…that would make fishing day so much better, so much easier. Practicing and practicing, I’ll grow stronger, strong enough to catch the most fish, to catch the biggest fish in Snezhnaya, in all of Teyvat. I thought he’ll be so proud of me then…” Childe’s voice faded as his expression grew clouded and distant. 

“That is certainly an interesting way of ice fishing. Is this common in Snezhnaya? I have not read about such a practice.” Zhongli didn’t like the somber look on Childe’s face. He did not know how or why such a seemingly joyous memory seemed to wound Childe so, but it did, and Zhongli did not wish to hurt him further.

“Huh? Oh, no… no, it’s not common at all. Munkha , that’s the word you’re looking for. That’s the name of the ice fishing tradition that comes from my village. It’s such an old way of ice fishing that no one even remembers where it comes from, only that it's passed down in our families. We even have a story about it, about a raven goddess that weaves a silver fishing-net made with magic hair.”

“ Munkha .” Zhongli looked thoughtful. “I have not heard of such a thing.”

Childe shrugged. “That’s what we call it in our dialect. Morepesok is so far away from anything and everything, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. Of course, everyone speaks Snezhnayan, but it's not the same as the type spoken inside the palace, or even at the capital. I daresay most foreigners have a better grasp of Snezhnayan grammar than some folks back home.”

“Morepesok,” Zhongli said. “Is that your hometown?” 

Childe nodded reluctantly. He hadn’t meant for the name to slip. Still, he wasn’t too upset about it. Zhongli could’ve written to the Tsaritsa and she would have told him. It wasn’t a state secret, and Zhongli wouldn’t use the information against him. He was safe. Childe exhaled, releasing a tense breath he didn’t know he was holding. Deep down he was a little relieved, he had not realized how much holding himself back from Zhongli could weigh so heavily on him.

“A lovely name for a village,” Zhongli said. “Liyue is similar in that respect. We have our dialects of course, for instance Qiaoying Village has words for various types of water, as they grow and harvest tea. In their dialect, the water that comes from snow melt would be different from water sourced from a mountain spring.”

“But it is possible that munkha , being such an old tradition, could simply be a word that doesn’t exist in modern Snezhnayan.”

“What do you mean?”

Zhongli said something. He spoke words Childe did not understand, hard guttural tones made soft by the whisper of his voice. His head rang with the cadence of his words, Childe did not know what they meant, but he understood the power behind them.

“What's that?” Childe asked. “It doesn’t sound like Liyuen.”

“It is a very old form of Liyuen,” Zhongli said. “One of the first languages spoken here.”

"Oh? Even before the Archon Wars?"

"Yes." Zhongli kissed up the side of Childe’s neck, his mouth lingered over his ear, his breath as hot and sure as touch. "Does it please you? To hear these words as old as gods, as old as Celestia itself?"

"What does it mean?"

Zhongli’s eyes shone like stars. Old. Childe knew Zhongli was old, but now he felt the heft of Zhongli’s age, his immortality bearing down upon him with great authority. Old and ageless and wholly divine. As old as the stars, the sun itself. Perhaps even as old as Teyvat, the first collision of stone and sea, the first contract made when waters receded to reveal land.

“ Dearest. ”  Zhongli spoke now in modern Liyuen, but his voice lost none of its strength. It flowed from his lips like honeyed wine, turning trite cliches into something deeper, richer, and true. An alchemist’s dream, except it was no mere catalyst, but Zhongli’s voice that transformed even the dullest lead into shining gold. Childe couldn’t help but shiver at the promise behind the endearment. 

“You are my heart. My love. My everything.”

The pause in conversation came as naturally as breathing. They felt no need to fill the air with words; there was nothing else left to add after Zhongli’s words of love. Awake as if dreaming, they sank into a comfortable silence, like tidepools left behind by the receding sea, lulled by the water’s warmth and each other’s presence.

Wordlessly, without breaking the peaceful moment, Childe reached out for the bottle of cleansing oil and poured it on his palms before spreading it on Zhongli’s hair.  This was something Zhongli had introduced him to, cleansing oils distilled from camellia flowers and tea extracts, different from rough lye soaps and harsh antiseptics that Childe had grown up with from training days in the Fatui. Even now the deep fragrance of the perfumed oil never failed to amaze him, filling the air with their indolic scent. 

No words were exchanged, but Zhongli understood; he leaned back, relaxing as Childe methodically combed through his hair, patiently untangling each strand, massaging the oil deep on to Zhongli’s scalp. This was Childe’s answer. Love, spoken with his hands; how careful is his touch for one unused to gentleness.

“Ah, you are truly a treasure Childe.” Zhongli said, his eyes closed in pleasure as Childe rinsed out his hair again.

“... And here I thought you only wanted me for my mora.” Childe joked.  

“That is the least valuable of all the qualities you possess,” Zhongli said. “Strength, which you are already aware of; but also your courage, your ability to adapt to any situation, your meticulous nature, your diligence, your patience, and of course, your loyalty—”

“Oh, stop!” Childe said laughingly. “You make it sound like you’re recruiting for a job interview. Thanks but no thanks; I’m already gainfully employed by the Tsaritsa no less.”

“What should I say then?”

“How about my good looks, or charming wit?” Childe suggested. “Or even better, we can talk less, do more, and I’ll show you just how good I am in a fight!”

“Your lust for battle is not something that I need to encourage.” Zhongli said. “You do enough of that on your own.”

“It wasn’t always like this, you know.” Childe said. “Actually, you’ll probably be surprised to know that I was quite timid and shy.”

“Hmmmm.” The noise rumbled out of Zhongli’s throat, low and encouraging, but he didn’t push Childe for more. He felt Childe’s fingers sink into his hair again, his thumbs digging at the base of his skull, pressing firmly until the last of his work tension eased.

Zhongli sighed in relief. His eyes were shut, relaxed as he rested on Childe’s warm chest. There were no other distractions. The steam had dissipated into the air, the water on the ceiling dripped down in heavy drops, splashing loudly on the still surface of their bath. Pipes, old and creaking, echoed mournfully like wizened hulls of winter boats. Underneath it all, the sound of Childe’s heart, beating steadily on.

Childe lifted a lock of Zhongli’s hair, and tucked it behind his ear before speaking. “Before I joined the Fatui, I had another name.” 

In a slow, unhurried movement, Childe’s head bowed down, his forehead resting on Zhongli’s strong shoulder. His face, hidden and pressed so close that Zhongli could feel the invisible stubble on Childe’s clean-shaven jaw on his cheek, and then, in a low voice, barely above a whisper: “ Ajax. ”

“Ajax.” Zhongli repeated. 

Childe’s heart pounded. Once one became a Fatuus, they discarded their personal history, their individual pasts, their previous bonds to pledge themselves to their great cause. For a harbinger like himself, he was not just a soldier, but a leader. Tartaglia was the pride and testament to the Tsaritsa’s power. His loyalty to the Fatui had to be unquestionable. 

And yet, to hear the name Ajax spoken by Zhongli sent him an unfathomable thrill— the closest he had ever gone to treachery. Was this what it felt like to be the betrayer? The guilt, the fear, tangled impossibly with the thrill of doing something unspeakably wrong, as though he was battling the greatest opponent, himself. 

“An interesting name,” Zhongli said. He spoke indifferently, as if Childe had not told him one of his greatest secrets. “Did you know ‘Ajax’ was once the title of a great play? It is the most wonderful theater, with its opening lines: Io, Io, Pan! That which lies beneath the great sea… ”

“I didn’t know that,” Childe said. The conversation felt surreal. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or horrified at how casually he had revealed himself to Zhongli, how close he’d gotten to betraying himself. “But my father was a big fan of stories, and he told us plenty as we were growing up. Maybe he named me after the play, I don’t know, I hope the Ajax in the story was a hero or warrior at least.”

“He was one of the greatest warriors in existence. The second strongest of them all.” Zhongli said.

“Just the second?” Childe said. “If it were me, I'd be the first!”

“You’ll stay right here with me, my love,” Zhongli said. His arm snaked around Childe’s waist to hold him. “I wouldn’t want you running off to places I can’t reach. You are my Ajax of the present instead.”

Childe ignored Zhongli’s possessive gesture. He would not promise to stay, he would not make promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he continued on, moving forward.

“I like the way you say it though— Ah-jax . The Snezhnayan ‘ A ’ is a lot harsher than the Liyuen ‘ A ’, like you’re biting down on your tongue or something. Ours is more like the A as in a pple, and not the A as in a ir.” 

“In Liyue, children are sometimes appended a diminutive, for instance, Xiangling would have been called A-Ling , when she was younger.” 

“Hah! My family wishes I were as cute.”

“Which name do you prefer to be called?”

“I have no past after joining the Fatui.” Childe said. “For you, you can call me whatever name you prefer.”

“And I am only given these choices?” Zhongli said. A sly smile edged at the corner of his lips; he sounded innocent, but his question prodded at Childe. “Surely you must have other names. Childe is an alias, and Tartaglia is a name you recently earned. What about the name you were given when you first joined the Fatui? Or the names you used when climbing up the rank and file? ”

“I am Tartaglia,” Childe said. “There is no other Eleventh except me. My other names are lost, they will not be grieved. Those who have tried otherwise are dead, and those who remember; fear me. My subordinates know better than to call me anything else.” 

“Those names may be lost, even dead to this world, but Ajax can still be recorded in my memories.” Zhongli said. “If you wished for it.” 

Childe looked uncomfortable at the thought. Rex Lapis was the oldest of the Seven, he was the closest to Celestia. Though Zhongli had abdicated his position, he was still a former Archon, who had known the secrets of the Heavenly Principles, and still kept secrets of his own. 

“Cautious little fox,” Zhongli said at the sight of Childe’s conflicted expression. “Don’t worry, your life is so brief that it will pass like a single swallow of tea… I will never ask you to forsake your vows or betray your queen.”

“Shouldn’t I be cautious? I’m a harbinger; where I go, I bring chaos. There’s always something more at stake.”

“Are you afraid?” Zhongli nuzzled at Childe’s nape, his golden eyes half-lidded, his voice thick and coiling with seduction. “Ajax is a warrior in a tragedy, an actor in a play. He can live, not as a person in a memory, but as a remembered story.” 

Childe closed his eyes. His throat felt tight, swallowing tension, working. He breathed, the damp skin of Zhongli’s flesh pressed close to his nose, inhaling the indolic fragrance of white flowers. He could choke from it. Moist, damp heat surrounded him, seducing him. Zhongli’s touch, Zhongli’s skin, Zhongli’s flesh, Zhongli’s kisses. 

“I’m not afraid.” Childe exhaled. “I have nothing to fear over a story.” His gaze sharpened. “I’ve already been on the greatest stage of all, isn’t that right, Mr. Zhongli ?” 

Zhongli kissed Tartaglia’s cheek, his nose, his forehead; his lips as soft as blessed rain. “And you deserve all the applause for it, my treasure.”

Childe said nothing, but he turned his face towards Zhongli’s, allowing himself to be kissed, before seeking the other man’s mouth in turn. Ajax was merely a character in an old, tragic tale from long ago, so long that Childe had never seen him on stage. A forgotten theater, a lost play. It was fine, to reprise a role that no one else remembered. Such playacting did not break his loyalties.

“Call me Ajax, if you desire.” Childe said. “I’ll be whatever you want, whatever you need me to be.”

“ Ajax. ” Zhongli said it, savored it. His tongue flicked out, tasting air. The pink tip slipped between syllables, curling around the name: Ah-jaxsh , he said. Softer, adding more sibilants where it should be, becoming something else, something new. 

Tartaglia liked it. His old name, his birth name he had thrown away, transformed and remade by Zhongli’s Liyuen accent, in a fusion of two cultures. It was not the same. It didn’t sound like it used to, it didn’t carry the baggage his family burdened him with, before. History rewritten, Ajax becoming Ajax once more.

“ My Ajax.” Zhongli’s eyes glittered. “My beautiful, beloved warrior.”  

Zhongli kissed the side of Ajax’s face, and watched the red rise on his cheek, his copper lashes flutter at the soft touch. 

“Let me tell you a story in turn, from an elder god to a young warrior seeking power.” Zhongli’s voice was lowered, secretive and sensual as he whispered on to Ajax’s trembling skin. “Gods can be conquered, but only through love.”

It was inevitable to leave, their bath lost its heat, turning cool. Childe rose first, the scented water sluicing off his back and hair, like a seal shaking off the sea. He held out his hand, Zhongli’s palm sliding over his, and marveled at their smoothness. Zhongli’s hands were flawless and untouched by water, unlike his own, wrinkled fingers, from sitting in the bath too long. Yet another small sign of the other man’s divinity. Perhaps it never even occurred to Zhongli at all. 

“Your hands, don't they get wrinkly from the water?” Childe held up his hands for Zhongli to examine. “Look at mine, shriveled like a prune!” He laughed, and wiggled his fingers.   

Zhongli caught his hand. “Ah, I see.” His brow furrows as he turns over Childe’s hand, examining his palm and fingers. “Osmosis occurring on the surface of skin, I had not considered it as my vessel is purely made of minerals, and not flesh.” His golden eyes flashed brightly for a moment. “Something like this perhaps?”

Childe took his hand. Zhongli’s palm was lined, but the lines on his skin were perfectly arranged, forming equidistant rows like the farm terraces in Qingce village. It was inhumanly uncanny, but so much like Zhongli that Childe couldn’t help but feel a rush of amused fondness.

“Nah, I don’t think so. But I like the way you are already, and you’re not planning to take baths with anyone else but me I hope.” 

Childe smiled at him, still holding his hand. Zhongli smiled back. He was defenseless against that smile; love, isn’t it such a human thing? To be defenseless against a beloved’s smile? Zhongli gave his gnosis away, but his heart, he entrusted to Childe’s hands. Those hands, Tartaglia’s hands, could be merciless, callous and even cruel, but never towards him. 

Trust. That was another name for love, wasn’t it? So rarely given, so precious, Zhongli had almost lost Childe’s trust during his test of Liyue, but now he’ll never let the other man go. A promise made by equals, not a god’s contract. There were no transactions to be made, no equitable trade, no ledger of past deeds or present recriminations, just a singular trust, a promise kept.

“C’mere.” Childe held out a towel for him. “Please?”

Zhongli allowed himself to be taken care of. Childe’s movements were deliberately languid and unhurried, toweling off Zhongli’s body from his shoulders, his back, his buttocks, his legs, all the way down to his feet. Childe at his feet, wiping at his shin and ankles. 

Childe was rougher than a trained attendant would have been, and Rex Lapis used to have far more worshippers than this one alone— but oh, he would not trade for the world, the sight of Childe kneeling by his own free will, his pretty bowed head, his smooth back hunched over, diligence gracing his every gesture. He could see how Childe held himself back, biting his lip, the pinched expression on his face, as he focused himself on Zhongli’s care. 

It was already noon, the sun so high in the sky that it slipped through the curtain wisps and cracks along the blinds. Even with the shades drawn close, the shadows were bright. Yet Zhongli was unbothered. There was no more work to be had, Zhongli had nothing to do and nowhere to go. He could indulge in these moments, drag out each second into an eternity. 

Dust floated, glinting as Zhongli sank onto the bed, his weight displacing them into air. The sheets enveloped him with its powdery softness. He felt Childe’s weight settle beside him, and before Childe began to slowly untangle and dry his hair. Long brown silky strands, each lock gently combed dry by Childe’s fingers and his hydro vision, and set upon Zhongli’s bared neck.  When he was finally done, Childe couldn’t help but run his hand through Zhongli’s hair. 

“Do you know, we have dragons in Snezhnaya?” Childe said, his face buried on Zhongli’s neck. They had taken a bath together. Even without sex, they smelled like each other. 

Skin on skin, the fragrance of soap and flowers bloomed as Childe wrapped his arms around him. Only the smallest hint of difference, the human musk, the human sweat, separated his mortality from Zhongli’s divine nature.  

“Is that so?” Zhongli tilted his head, allowing Childe better access to his neck. Small kisses bitten on his throat and along the juncture of his shoulder. In time, the marks would fade, but Zhongli did not mind; he would simply demand to be kissed again. “Should I be concerned? My beloved cavorting with other dragons?”

“Oh we have dragons, but not like yours,” Childe said. 

Childe lifted himself, and rolled them together until Zhongli laid under him. His arms bracketed the sides of Zhongli’s head, Childe looked down, and their gazes met. There was not a time where they didn’t touch; Childe’s toes stroking the bottom of Zhongli’s feet, Childe’s knees nudging the gap between Zhongli’s legs, creating a space for himself between Zhongli’s narrow hips, Zhongli’s hand caressing the Childe’s waist, pulling him even closer.

“Not as beautiful,” Childe continued. His body blanketed Zhongli completely, not even a sliver of space separated them, his face a mere inches away from the other man’s mouth. Childe smiled, a mischief danced across in his dark blue eyes, as he deliberately rubbed himself against Zhongli’s body. 

Zhongli groaned. Pleasure suffused his senses. The delicious friction, slow and sensual, prickling all over his skin. The warm weight of Childe’s chest, his hardened nipples rubbing against his own, then the smooth roll of Childe’s hips, down and onward, to the incendiary heat of their cocks sliding against each other.

“Zmiy, Drak, Šarkan, Lamia, Smok… our dragons are meaner, and far more cruel than you’ll ever be.” The foreign names rolled off Childe’s tongue, tolling like snow bells at the stroke of midnight. Childe tried to laugh, but he ran out of air, gasping instead. “But you’re just as greedy as they are.”

“Yes, yes .” Zhongli’s arm snaked around Childe’s shoulders, and pulled him down. Hunger met his mouth, and bit onto his lips as Zhongli devoured him in a kiss. Childe moaned, low and long as he rocked his hips down, the hot muscle of Zhongli’s cock, just as hard, just as needy, just as wet as his own. His hand traced the Zhongli’s side, intending to finish them both, before he impulsively voiced his demand.

“Will you let me have you, dragon lord?” Childe looked from his fey, frost blue eyes, old as winter, young as freshly fallen snow. “Let me have you, take you as mine?”

“How can I refuse?” Zhongli’s hand cupped his cheek, cradling it. His thumb skated over Childe’s throat, feeling his pulse jump in anticipation. “Show me how you love, Tartaglia. Show me how I might be conquered, my beloved warrior.” 

“That’s a tall order, coming from someone with over 6,500 years of experience.”

“Are you not up for the challenge?” Zhongli’s eyes glinted. “Should I relieve myself with my hand instead?”

“Don’t even try, I’ll knock your hand away.” Childe said. “You know how much I enjoy a challenge, especially when it comes from you.”

Childe kissed him again before Zhongli could reply. Sly, golden-tongued dragon, Childe rendered him speechless with kisses, his hands roaming over Zhongli’s body, touching him everywhere. It seemed purposeless, almost random in the way Childe’s hands skimmed over Zhongli’s forearms, the crook of his elbow, his muscled chest, down the tapered sides of his waist. 

Yet it was an effective seduction in its own way. Quick and fleeting touches that left one wanting more, Childe understood desire like a battle to be won— he made up for his inexperience by adapting himself to Zhongli’s preferences, observing what Zhongli enjoyed, reacting to Zhongli’s pleasure as though it was his own. 

Childe pulled back to take in the sight of Zhongli sprawled below him. Even like this, Zhongli looked immaculate. He did not sweat, nor did he blush. Even his mouth, kissed and bitten as it was, remained the same. The only sign of arousal was the hardness between his thighs, his cock sculpted in a perfect curve, flushed red with a dewy tip that made Childe want to suck him off. He’d never sucked off a man before. The desire to do so surprised him.

“Is this okay?” Childe asked. He reached to grasp Zhongli’s cock in his hand, letting it slick over his palm, before gilding up as smoothly as he could. “I don’t… you know I haven’t—”

“You may,” Zhongli said, then added quickly, “although I must confess, I won’t last if you take me in your mouth.”

Childe smiled at that. “Am I that good?” He teased, and made a great show of taking his hand away and licking his palm. “Or are you just too easy?”

Saliva and Zhongli’s precome glistened in the afternoon light, Childe’s tongue swiped over the web between his fingers, closing his eyes and moaning loudly. The effect was far more comic than erotic. He smothered a chuckle. While Zhongli hesitated to lay blame on Snezhnayan pornography, Childe had obviously learned this from somewhere .

 “Perhaps you simply needed a better teacher.” Zhongli caught Childe’s hand, and twined their fingers together before he could move away.  Zhongli appreciated Childe’s earnest attempts at seduction, but his time would be better spent focusing on their shared pleasure rather than a poor imitation of one.

“You can touch me here,” Zhongli slid their joined hands over his cock, savoring the different sensations: the calluses on Childe’s palm, the smooth familiarity of his own, their knuckles curled and brushing on his cock. He could feel the clammy grip of Childe’s hand, sweaty with nervous excitement. 

“Or you can touch me here .” Zhongli spread his legs further, wanton and inviting, and dragged their joined hands over the rim of his hole.

Childe let out a small shocked noise. Zhongli let his hand go, but Childe’s fingers stayed where they were, stroking over his entrance. His blue eyes were wide and round with disbelief. “Can I? Can I really?” He sounded so shocked, as if it never occurred to him that Zhongli would enjoy being taken as well. “I don’t want to hurt you, I…”

“Tartaglia.” Zhongli interrupted him. It was better to clear up any misconceptions. “When we had sex before, and I penetrated you, did it hurt?”

“No!” Childe looked surprised, and shook his head. “Of course not. You always ask, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Exactly.” Zhongli said. “You will not hurt me. If I am in any discomfort, I will let you know.” 

Childe stared at him for a long moment. His shoulders stiffened as he processed what Zhongli said, before relaxing again when understanding finally dawned on his face.

“Oh, oh .”  It was enduring to see how the blush crept up Childe’s cheeks, his strawberry pink lips, shyly parted. Zhongli leaned back, and grabbed a pillow to slide under his hips. He let his legs fall at the sides, his pelvis tilted slightly upwards, allowing Childe a better view of himself. 

Childe gripped the thick meat of Zhongli’s upper thighs, his right arm supporting Zhongli’s knee towards his shoulder, his left palm was unbearably hot; close but not yet touching Zhongli’s groin. Childe’s throat bobbed, as he swallowed thickly. He looked bewildered, transfixed at the sight of Zhongli spread fully before him. There was no mistaking Zhongli’s sexual intent.

“Are you just going to spend the day looking?” Zhongli said. His free hand trailed down, from his neck to his collarbones, then to his dark nipples. He sighed in pleasure as he played with his peaked nipples, then lower, towards the dark brown rust between his legs, where his cock laid. “It is a poor thing to leave one’s partner wanting.”

“Are you saying I can’t satisfy you?” Childe demanded.

“That will be up to your performance, Tartaglia.” Zhongli said serenely. He crooked his finger, beckoning him closer. “Come now, and kiss me.”

Childe obeyed. How could he not? He bent down, bowing his head towards the former Archon, and they fell effortlessly into a kiss. Zhongli licked his mouth, Childe responded by sucking on his tongue. 

Zhongli groaned, Childe felt it rumble through him where their bodies touched, a secondary resonance. His hesitation evaporated by instinct. Encouraged by the sound of Zhongli’s pleasure, Childe pushed their bodies closer until he was rutting against Zhongli’s hips, Zhongli’s leg wrapped around his waist, Childe’s cock trapped between their bodies, leaking and eager.

“Is this good?” Childe said breathlessly. “Good enough for an old dragon like you?” 

“Not enough,” Zhongli said. He snarled when Childe ground down, his hips rolling in a full circle, deliberate and teasing. “Give me more .”

Childe reached for the perfumed oils by the nightstand. He could make a hydro lubricant, as he often did now that they had become lovers, but Zhongli was different. It was too utilitarian, Zhongli said. He preferred the slow luxury of pouring oil on his hands, warming it on his palms before gently opening him up. He would never be so uncouth as to pour it directly on Childe either, even when the younger man begged for it; Zhongli claimed it was too impersonal.

He did not touch Zhongli until the oil was sufficiently warmed between his hands. When Childe finally reached between Zhongli’s legs, there was no difference in temperature except for how slickly it coated his skin. A tentative swipe, Childe’s fingertips lightly stroking him, then more deeply as he grew in confidence, his thumb circling Zhongli’s rim, massaging with greater pressure.

Zhongli laid on the bed, half-propped on his elbows. In this position, he couldn’t touch Childe without breaking the other man’s concentration. Yet Childe was keenly aware of Zhongli, the weight of Zhongli’s gaze fell heavily— his eyes were dark with desire, honey gold burning to smouldering embers. 

A lover’s passion, different from the pedestal of devotion. Childe brought the intimacy of individual knowledge, minutiae made more meaningful by its trivial unimportance. He did not ask for Rex Lapis’s market predictions, or for Zhongli’s expert knowledge. 

Childe wanted the least valuable of things, Zhongli’s time and company. What was time for an immortal? Zhongli was already retired, he lived in excess of time. And yet all Childe wanted was for Zhongli to hang his coat on the hallway of their home, take his socks off and put them in the right laundry basket, make him tea and kiss him on the cheek; welcome back . Childe, who turned his face towards him, demanded kisses, Zhongli’s kisses. It was the most trivial thing Childe could ask Zhongli for, but felt all the more precious and priceless for it.

He gave space for Zhongli to explore and indulge himself in the throes of sexual pleasure; Zhongli could bare his neck and arch his back with a wanton, single-minded desire, and Childe would love him all the more for it.

“Does it hurt?” Childe asked. His thumb and index finger pressed deeper now, slow and exploratory. He looked down at his hand, a furrow between his brows, watching as his fingers sank deeper into Zhongli’s hole. Then he looked up at Zhongli’s face, the same intense focus as he watched for Zhongli’s reaction. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“Curve your fingers a little, ah, yes, just like that.” Zhongli said. “Further.” He pushed himself down on Childe’s fingers, taking more. Zhongli threw his head back, welcoming the rare sensation of being stretched. 

“Let me, I think—” Childe pulled Zhongli’s knee up higher, hooking his leg over his shoulder. He curved his palm upwards, his fingers seeking for what he knew felt good; he wanted to give the same pleasure he had experienced before, it was what Zhongli deserved. 

Childe said nothing with words, but Zhongli watched his lover’s face frown in concentration. It was the same, intense focus that Tartaglia had during their sparring sessions. It wasn’t a deep frown, Childe was too used to smiling more often than not, and so his brow did not furrow deeply as most wont to do. Instead, his face grew grave as it did now, his lips pressed together, pinched and almost pouting, his eyes opaque as a gathering storm, darkening skies into drowning sea, blue unto blue.

“Ah!” Zhongli cried out. “There, there .” 

“Here?” Childe said. “Or here?” Two of his fingers sank deeply into Zhongli’s body, all the way to his knuckles. He curled them upwards, gently stroking, then circling the gland with his fingertips, teasing, then rubbing directly over the gland when Zhongli cried out for more, more, and more. 

His hand was beginning to cramp at this position, but Childe ignored it in favor of Zhongli’s pleasure. This was the least he could do. Childe did not know how to soothe or comfort, his memories of home were too faint to be of any use, and the brutal upbringing he had in the military scorned weakness. Hold yourself together. Kill or be killed. Grow up. Grow stronger. Be a man. 

Such was the brutal reality of being in the Fatui.  But then he’d met Zhongli, who’d made him question his own beliefs, who’d shown him a different form of strength. Do you really believe that, Tartaglia? That cruelty gives you strength, and not your honor and loyalty? If love and kindness makes one weak, then I do not want to be strong.  

Zhongli, who was once the most powerful of warriors, but still a god, still the prime of adepti. He had forsaken the Archon’s throne, but lost none of his power. And yet Zhongli looked at Childe, with those golden eyes, never leaving him, never forsaking him. Even now, in the throes of desire and ecstasy, Zhongli’s tender gaze never left. 

Childe wanted to give him everything. He did not grow up cocooned in affection, he was unfamiliar with such generosity. But Childe could follow Zhongli’s example, and demonstrate the same softness he’d learned. Yes, that was it— Childe took care to luxuriate in the tenderness, taking the time to slowly open Zhongli up, each gesture showing how much he loved, even if he couldn’t yet say the words.

“Enough.” Zhongli reached down and grabbed Childe’s wrist, groaning when Childe’s fingers pulled out of his body. He had been so intent on giving Zhongli pleasure that he’d neglected himself. 

Childe sat back on his heels, his cock bobbing between his legs, hard and untouched. His expression was uncertain, he looked at his own cramped hand, the mess of fragrant oil dribbling between his fingers then at Zhongli, and then he felt like he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t tear his eyes away; Zhongli’s entrance, pink and stretched open, all from his touch.

Zhongli huffed impatiently. “Are you just going to stare?” This impatience was new, Childe couldn’t help but touch Zhongli’s rim again, his thumb slipping in so easily now. He marveled at the heat and tightness it promised him. Zhongli shuddered at being fingered again.

“Take me now, Tartaglia.” Zhongli’s leg, the one hooked over Childe’s shoulder, kicked out lightly. His heel dug against Childe’s back, urging him in. “I want you .”

You . 

Zhongli’s demand cleared away his doubts, driving Childe in a frenzy of action. Zhongli's knee was pushed up, his body bent and folded under Childe, his weight settled over Zhongli blanketing him completely. It was a little clumsy perhaps, for Childe could not contain his own eagerness, the relief on his face when he finally slicked his own cock with oil, but he was also very sweet, the way he pushed Zhongli’s hair aside, small kisses raining his throat and neck, Childe’s chest pressed against his own, an intimate reminder that Zhongli wasn’t alone in his desire.

“Alright?” Childe asked. His cock nudged at Zhongli’s entrance, his arms shivered as he held himself up, held himself back for Zhongli. 

It was an exhilarating amount of power, Zhongli knew that if he asked Childe to stop at this moment, Childe would do so without complaint. This was why Zhongli loved him; not just for his beauty or his fighting prowess, or his competence, or even his ambition— but this innate kindness that grew harshest conditions.

“Yes, yes,” Zhongli said. “ Ajax. ”

Ajax, Tartaglia, Childe. The man above him trembled at his name. It was so rarely spoken, and yet Zhongli had called him, remaking Ajax into something precious and intimate and new. 

It was Ajax who thrust himself inside Zhongli’s heat, the warmth and tightness surrounding him. Zhongli’s insides were searingly hot, gripping him so firmly he was almost lost in the trembling pleasure of it all.

“Breathe, darling.” Zhongli’s arms wrapped around his head, his hand tangled onto the curly hair at the base of Ajax’’s neck. “That’s right, Ajax, breathe.” Zhongli cooed. His other leg curled around Ajax’s waist, possessive and embracing. Ajax’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face screwed up, twisted with undefinable emotion as he spoke.

“I, Zhongli, I— I don’t think I can last,” Ajax stammered, his face red with shame and arousal. “I’m sorry, I…it's just too much.”

“Oh my darling Ajax,” Zhongli cooed. “There’s no need to worry, just take what you want, Ajax.” In his position, he had little leverage, but Zhongli pushed himself down as much as he could, taking Ajax’s cock to the root, grinding himself where they were joined. Ajax let out a small, embarrassed whine.

“But,” Ajax bit his lip so hard that it bled, the wet sheen of his mouth shiny with saliva and blood. Zhongli wanted to kiss him. “But, I want to make you happy.”

“You already do,” Zhongli said. His arms pulled Ajax down, until their foreheads touched, Ajax’s head resting on his. “You make me very happy.” Zhongli gave in to his desire, and kissed him.

Ajax moaned into his mouth. It was a sloppy kiss, but even so, the angle was perfect, Ajax’s mouth hungry and slanted over Zhongli’s. Zhongli scratched lightly between Ajax’s shoulders, his sharp nails pricking against Ajax’s sensitive skin, and then, finally, he began to move.

“Yes, yes, just like that.” Zhongli groaned, delighting in sensation. How long since he had taken a lover? Centuries, perhaps even a millenia. Now, Zhongli relished the burn of being stretched open, how Ajax’s breath stuttered against his ear, how Ajax’s cock filled him perfectly, as if all years of erosion, the crevices in his heart and soul could be filled by a single instance. 

His body folded into half, Zhongli surrendered himself to the sexual haze; the nature of rock made it difficult for him to yield, but even the hardest bedrock could be made molten by heat, by passion, by love. Metamorphosis; rock that did not crumble in its brittle hardness, but instead, transformed. 

“ Ajax ,” Zhongli murmured. Ah-jaxsh , even the way he said it was adorable. Somehow, the soft whisper of his name was far more erotic than anything else he’d said. It wasn’t an order, or a demand, or even a provocation.

“ Zhongli .” Ajax was smiling now. He braced himself with one hand, continuing to thrust while his other hand trailed down the side of Zhongli’s face. Beautiful man, beautiful god. Ajax felt the flutter of Zhongli’s lashes against his palm, when Zhongli turned to the side to kiss his hand. His fingers touched the tip of Zhongli’s nose, his hand curved around the man’s cheek, cradling his face.

Zhongli, who was so beautiful, so impeccable in his dress, so perfect in his manners. His flawless vessel, his divine body. Even now, in the midst of sex, with moans and pleasured sighs spilling from his lips, Zhongli didn’t blush or sweat. Ajax had bitten his shoulder, had showered him with kisses, and his skin remained the same pale alabaster. Even the marks he’d made, would fade in less than a day. Zhongli who couldn’t hide his godliness, no matter how hard he tried. 

Zhongli’s facial muscles contorted often, in strange ways Ajax knew weren't human, the soft clay of mortality melting away to reveal sharp geometric angles. The weird way Zhongli’s eyebrows lifted, and stayed up as though he was in constant surprise, how his mouth moved, overextended and strangely mobile as if his lips were trying to catch up with the rapid speech of his words. 

Somehow, this made Zhongli all the more endearing to Ajax. A perfect god, who couldn’t quite hide his imperfect blending. Zhongli talked a lot during sex, which came as no surprise, but he also pouted, grunted, moaned, and all these expressions Ajax hoarded his own dragon trove of secrets.  These were the faces Zhongli couldn’t, or didn’t hide, during sex. Not human, but it made Zhongli seem more attainable, as though the vast distance could be crossed, leapt through time and space and back again, the gap of their lives could be closed with a fairytale kiss.

In, and out, in, and out, in, and out. The push and draw of Ajax’s hips like a taut bow string, strung tighter and tighter. Zhongli could feel the tension in Ajax’s entire body, he shook with it, the tendons on his neck jumping forward with each surge and press of his cock. Yet Ajax never changed his pace. It was very sweet how he held back his aggression to please Zhongli. Slower, deeper and more sensual, the way Zhongli preferred it, even if it was against Tartaglia’s own instincts. 

“ Zhongli, ” Ajax’s voice was tight, pinched with need. “Zhongli, Zhongli, Zhongli…” 

He chanted his name fervently, so sweetly, so desperately, Ajax fighting against himself even as his eyes grew dark, the blue of his eyes tinged by vicious purple, and still, he held himself back, each movement forced back to gentleness. His hand sought Zhongli’s, there was enough power in his grip to crush Zhongli’s hand, the electro crackling just under his skin, thrumming and ready to unleashed itself; but Ajax didn’t, he wouldn’t. 

Ajax pressed his head on Zhongli’s hand like a benediction, then kissed his palm. His thrusts grew sloppier, barely drawing back before pushing back in, as if he couldn’t bear leaving Zhongli at all. There was no space between their bodies, not even to thrust, Ajax grinding and rutting and fucking him so intimately that he could only feel their mingled breaths, their entwined bodies, shifting together as one.

That’s what pushed him over, Ajax diligently placing Zhongli’s pleasure above himself, not in a selfless way, but with the tender possession of a lover. Love, as merciful as the fresh ice giving water its life, as gentle as the first snowfall blanketing sleeping earth. Radiance rushed towards him, the sun swallowing him with its brightness, the snowfields shining with its whiteness. 

Zhongli came with a shout; so intense, so perfect, that he was left grasping in its brilliance, his eyes shut as he gasped, unmoored and clutching onto Ajax. He shuddered through it all, shaking and clenching reflexively down, and words, babbling words and spilling secrets in turn, urging Ajax on, his own precious dark star. “Come for me, come my darling, Ajax, Ajax, come, yes, come, my love, my star—” 

He seized Ajax, his amber arms glowing with Geo sigils, bearing down on the hard cock still inside him. Zhongli’s eyes, no — it was Morax’s eyes glittering fiercely, his inhuman strength enclosing Ajax in his embrace, his hips slamming down greedily, grinding on Ajax’s cock, milking him; a dragon lord taking his rightful dues.

Ajax cried out. Nothing mattered, not the words, not the secrets, not the sea nor the tide, not the time that passed or stood still forever. He cried so loudly the sky must’ve trembled with fear; he thrust, he plunged, he took and took and gave himself away, limitless and infinite as he came, spilling his seed and shattering. He bit down on Morax’s glowing arm, insensate from pleasure, his teeth clacking against the smooth rock and he heard Morax’s soft laughter chasing behind him, distant and fond.

I love you. Ajax confessed. He did not speak it to Morax’s face, mouthing the words mutely onto the god’s arm. It was so quiet that Ajax didn’t even hear his own voice, yet it roared, thunderously as a heartbeat, the pounding flesh and bone and blood. 

Morax’s divine glow faded slowly, gradually, dully, into the late afternoon sunlight, and  Zhongli’s arm, its pale and unremarkable skin, recalling, returning. The stillness that came from after a storm, Zhongli held him, their bodies still locked and crushed together, and Ajax knew he had heard.

I love you. He said it, and he’d meant it. Zhongli knew, he must have known. He’d known without words, without needless declarations or lying deceptions, Zhongli had known that Ajax cared only for the truth that came with actions, gestures, tangible things; but he’d said it anyway, because that was something Zhongli wanted, no, he needed to hear. And Ajax loved him enough to say aloud, just for him. 

Ajax rested on Zhongli for a moment, enjoying their closeness before gently pulling himself away. He helped Zhongli stretch his legs, massaging his calves, practicing the same care and attention that Zhongli often gave him. “Are you okay?” He asked. “Does it hurt, anywhere?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Zhongli said. Then he patted the space beside him. “Come here, lie down next to me.”

Ajax obeyed, he laid on Zhongli’s side to nestle his head on the other man’s shoulder. They said nothing for a while, content to watch daylight streak across the bedroom. Minutes turned to hours, slicing diagonals like hands of a clock, traveling on. The light turned more golden as the afternoon turned late, the smell of sex and soap was warm and comforting. 

Zhongli was playing with the ends of his hair, combing through the locks and twisting each curl around his fingers before laying it back down, smoothening it back to place. Ajax felt himself drift, the day’s exhaustion finally catching up to him, and yet he felt compelled to stay awake, to keep Zhongli company.

“Darling.” He heard the fond amusement seep through Zhongli’s voice. Did Zhongli think he was so easily tired? Ajax scowled, feeling irrationally stubborn. “You should rest now.”

“No.” There, he’d said it. He’d show Zhongli, hah! Ajax sighed happily and pressed his face on Zhongli’s shoulder, his eyelids shut as he inhaled the clean minerality of Zhongli’s skin. One day, he’ll tell Zhongli; the god didn’t sweat, but up close, you smell his divinity, sharp as a crack of ozone on a summer’s lightning. 

“ Ajax .” Zhongli tried to sound stern, but it was impossible when his lover was like this. “Don’t be difficult. You need rest.”

“You should come,” Ajax said. His voice was muffled by Zhongli’s shoulder. “Come visit me.”

“Where should I visit?” Zhongli said gently. “Am I not already here, with you?”

“No, Snezhnaya.” Ajax turned to his side. Drool marked the corner of his lips, he curled closer to Zhongli, seeking the other’s warmth. “You’ll like it, we’ll go see the snow, the black ice, rainbow lights…. We’ll be happy...so very... happy.”

“Of course.” He felt Zhongli’s lips kiss his cheek. Something warm tugged around him, softly. He reached blindly for them, oh, these were blankets. Ajax snuggled in deeper, his head pillowed by Zhongli’s arm, their bodies nestled together. “Sleep now, Ajax. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Zhongli watched as Ajax finally fell asleep. He could pinpoint the exact moment when his lover’s breath deepened, his heartbeat slowing to a slumbering rhythm. Did Ajax dream of snow in his sleep? Zhongli wondered as Ajax’s eyelashes fluttered, his eyelids moving as he swam in dreams. 

Love is snow, love is ice ; as Ajax claimed, as Childe told, as Tartaglia showed. 

Love that comes like the first ice in winter, in the twilight years of one’s life, at the end of the world order. Love as delicate as a snowflake, as powerful as a blizzard, as surprising as hoarfrost in the morning. Clear as ice that stopped the rushing river, blue as ice that rose like mountains at sea. Island floes, desolate icebergs floating on the black-nighted sea, becoming stepping blocks for other creatures, lending a small mercy, the winter that gave life. 

Frost that grew into flowers, where the rocks laid are barren and frozen, spreading overnight until it covered the ground completely with its surprising ice. Zhongli’s breath froze, as if his own heart had been seized by the same power.  

“You make me happy.” Zhongli kissed his sleeping cheek again, only the faint tremble of his lips gave away his emotions. Love is snow, love is ice. He was a powerful god; but Zhongli knew fate writ in constellations, in visions, in the unchangeable sky.  He could only hope that the ice would protect his snow-born lover. A small mercy, that the cold hand that would not carry its deathly shroud. Only a soft winter, shielding and preserving life with its frost. "Very very happy, my darling, my Ajax."